This past weekend I was on retreat with the Sufis, with beloved teacher Aqdas. It is amazing how much of a teacher's energy comes through in the context of a retreat that rings with silence. It is astonishing how much silence comes through the Sufi practices, many of which involve the vocal cords, repeating prayers and phrases, embodied with physical movements.

On Sunday evening at the end of the retreat, I stood in the courtyard (the edge of cold now gone from the days here) with Aqdas and two others, and she initiated me into the Sufi order. The two witnesses were the regional representative for the Sufi Order, and the gentleman who has agreed to be my guide.

So, within the cycling beginning-ing of the days of my Gong and life, here is another beginning. That's what "initiation" means. What else does it mean?

I sure wrote a lot about the concept of the 100-day Gong back in November and December. But I've been pretty silent on the subject since starting my Gong on the winter solstice.

I've been more focused on doing/being/embodying the Gong than on writing about it, although the preponderance of posts in the "Mindfulness" category should attest both to the nature of my Gong and to how much it's in the front of my mind and experience.

Today, though, is day 30, and it's time for an update. 30 is a good number for this Gong's subdivisions: not quite a third of 100, it's also at the three-and-a-third point in my own nine-day-cycle subdivision, so that when my third "nundina" ended on Friday, I was already looking toward this 30-day review point. 

WIth this "buddy system for days," it's fascinating to see how much more comfortable I can be setting goals in the face of the unknown. If one day doesn't bring it, there are days around it to tauten the focus.

Since we've just been talking about monkey minds and about attention span related to sentence length, it's only natural that the word of the week should be 

attention

If we take a look at what we're saying when we use that word, it'll come clear that really there can be no such thing as attention deficit; it's all a matter of quality.

Sit in a quiet place, cue all the environmental messages to put yourself in a meditative state, and try not to think about monkeys.

Don't think about cartoon monkeys, or sock monkeys, or plush monkeys.

Don't think about monkey puzzle trees, or monkey nuts, if that's what peanuts are called where you live. Don't think about monkey bars.

If you're reading this on your computer, you probably have fifteen other tabs open in your browser window, and maybe several other browser windows in the background. One or other of them may chime or sing or yell random phrases at any moment.

If you're reading this on your phone or tablet, as an ever-increasing percentage of you are, this post will have all that browser competition plus apps, phone, and text.

If you've even clicked on "continue reading," you've probably already scrolled ahead, or looked at the size of the scroll bar, to see how long of a read you're in for, whether you can settle in for long enough to see the post through, how many  times you'll need to click away to refresh your attention.

Please click "continue reading" now, and do as I just described. I promise I won't keep you long.

A keystone principle of my work as an editor  is confidentiality. I believe this is crucial, whether we're working on a poetry collection or an academic thesis, a science book or a cookbook.

No matter the subject matter or genre, my client is pouring heart and soul into the project.  If I'm to help him or her produce their best possible work, the art that's in truest harmony with their creative impulse, s/he must be comfortable confiding in me, confessing to me, trusting me with sh*tty first drafts and skeletons in the closet.

Ad here's the paradox:  confidentiality gives birth to confidence!

When I lived in Alaska, I observed the first year that living there was like traveling continuously while staying in the same place. Which is what we're all doing, all the time anyway, of course, traveling around the sun; but close to the poles, it's palpable. Parts of the year are almost punitively lush, the view foreshortened, all bower, arbor, marsh. And then the months of stark snowscape, and the gray-brown in betweens.

Moving to a place where day and night give and take more evenly around the year has clearly been kind to me and my mercurial moods. But this is the desert; this is also a place of extremes.